


Mellow Dreaming

by Morning_Glory_Skyes



Category: Banana Bus Squad, The Derp Crew
Genre: :)))))))))))), Alternate Universe -- Mafia AU, Angst, Blood, Death, Everything Hurts/Nobody's okay, M/M, Murder, Oh look another pairing for me to murder, Revenge, Unrequited Love, adam's a mafia boss, del's an assassin, does del is gay? idk and im the author, does nanners die? read to find out, hi yes watch me ruin this, lots of mutual pining but im not tagging it cause these tags aren't supposed to be happy, max's a bounty hunter, sk!ohm is op, some pretty graphic death, spoiler: nanners is in for a fun time, this is gonna be fun, ze and chilled are minions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-17
Updated: 2018-05-17
Packaged: 2019-05-07 15:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14673981
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Morning_Glory_Skyes/pseuds/Morning_Glory_Skyes
Summary: If there's one thing Del learns quickly in this line of business, it's that you have to wait for your prey to come to you. You never, ever go to them.





	Mellow Dreaming

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Melonmellow](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Melonmellow/gifts).



> So this is a birthday gift for one of my favorite people, Melly! Happy 17th birthday!

     If there's one thing Del learns quickly in this line of business, it's that you have to wait for your prey to come to you. So he lurks in the shadows, taking great care to not let the light gleam off of his mask, and waits for his target to step away from the party. The man he is to kill is tall, taller than him by a few inches, and Del settles lower in the darkness and glances down at his watch again. His target is far outside of the range of his needles, otherwise this would have been over a lot sooner.

     Out of all of his weapons, Del's personal favorite has to be his needles. Ten inches of stainless steel that's sharpened to a point and poisoned up one side and down the other, and more than capable of sinking deep into skin. The only thing that declares them his weapon is the blue tassel on the unsharpened end, a small 'H2O' charm hanging from the top. They're just as well known as his mask, and when they're spotted, most people tend to flee.

     (The only reason the police know about his needles is because one was unlucky enough to have spotted one of his kills. To have spotted him shoving the needle up through his prey's throat and into their brain. Spotted him with blood splattering his mask, blood dripping from a wound on his upper thigh, and hysterical laughter echoing through the darkness.

     Warnings about facing him go out the very next day.)

     ((If you see him, run. Don't face him, don't bother, don't try; he'll wear your teeth like a necklace, your skin like a coat, your intestines like a scarf. He'll feast on your flesh, dine on your organs, and drink your blood like wine. Run, run, run, and don't you look back; he'll be right behind you if you do.))

     (Delirious thinks their fear is absolutely adorable.)

     The man he's supposed to kill finally, finally steps away from his party and wanders out onto a balcony, and Del instantly snaps to attention. He's on one of the farthest building across from the massive mansion, a sniper's nest tucked away into the darkest shadows of the roof, and he laughs softly with glee and puts his eye to the scope, watching as his prey leans against the railing's edge.

     His target is a mafia boss known only as SeaNanners; a man with short brown hair, matching brown eyes, and a mischievous, almost chaotic smile. A man who's very well known for making his enemies simply disappear, a man who's not afraid to get his own hands covered in blood if it means getting the job done, a man who's usually surrounded by the inner circle known only as the Derp Crew.

     If Delirious wants to kill him, now is the best—and probably only—chance he's going to get.

     He cocks his sniper and tilts the barrel of the gun, lining up a direct shot. The quicker he can kill the mafia boss, the quicker he can slip back into the darkness.

     In front of him, Nanners leans against the railing and presses a hand against his ear, obviously listening to something. An earpiece then, which, unfortunately, makes things more than a little bit trickier. Because he's obviously speaking to someone from the Derp Crew and if Del shoots him now, whoever is on the other end will definitely hear it. Delirious scowls and lines the shot up again, peering through the scope at the man far below. He breathes in, breathes out, waits for the lull in his heartbeat, and—

     Nanners is staring at him.

     Not directly at him, no, his gaze is off by a few feet, but the mafia boss' eyes are slowly scanning the roof-line his sniper nest is on and Del shrinks back into the darkness. Shit. There's no way he can kill the son of a bitch right now, not if he's reading Nanner's lips correctly.

_There's a sniper somewhere in that roof-line._

_Aiming at me, yes._

_I know that, Ze._

     For a moment, Nanners rolls his eyes upwards in sheer exasperation, and for a second it looks like he's contemplating jumping off the balcony. _I'm fine, for fuck's sake._

_Oh my god, Ze. Stop worrying._

_I'm fucking fine, now go fuck your boyfriend._

_Are you sure Chilled isn't your boyfriend, Ze?_

     Delirious slinks back further into the shadows and breaks down his sniper rifle. There's no way he's going to be able to kill Nanners, not now that the man knows he's here, and especially not if he's talking to Ze Royal Viking. For fuck's sake, he's not even sure how the mafia boss even learned about his presence in the first place and now he's going to have to tread incredibly carefully. Especially if he wants his identity to remain unknown.

     The Derp Crew is, after all, rather well known for getting rid of those they don't like. And Delirious has too much shit to do than to just let them make him disappear. If any of those fucks come near him, he's going to spike them in the throat with his needles, preferably after he's laced the damn things with the worst poisons he can get his hand on.

     He snatches one of his blue needles and scowls, spinning it between his fingers and watching the way the threads of the tassel spread in the air. “Son of a motherfucking bitch,” Delirious mutters, and he's completely done with the situation. It had started so _well_ , too. He slips the needle back into its sheath, and yanks his sleeves down, shoving his sniper into its bag. Without a jacket, it's not like he can successfully hide the thing on his frame, so the bag is the best thing he can do.

     The worst part of this entire situation is that, if he wants to successfully kill Nanners, he's going to have to crash the party. Without his mask. Or his sniper. Or even any of his handguns.

     Shit.

     But for now, it's best if he retreats and slinks off into the darkness. Delirious needs to plan, preferably before he gets himself nearly killed. Again. Throwing the bag over his shoulder, he vaults over the edge of the building and down onto the fire escape below, casually making his way down to the alley below.

     Well, that was a night wasted. How annoying.

_(Delirious despises wasting time._

_Especially when it's his own time.)_

**oOo**

     If there's one thing Adam is certain of, it's that there's a sniper hiding somewhere in the roof-line across from his mansion. He can't see them, certainly not from this distance, but the sensation in his gut is screaming at him. Ze huffs loudly in his ear and he snorts, absently considering rolling his eyes, and scans the dark roofs in the distance. Adam's gaze narrows slightly, and he considers who possibly could have been sent after him. Definitely not a rookie killer, because the only reason he realized that there was someone there was the faintest sensation of being watched.

     Adam has very good gut instincts and he's long since learned to listen to them.

     “Ze,” he says quietly into his microphone, a hand coming up to press gently at his ear.

_“Yeah, boss?”_

     “There's a sniper somewhere in that roof-line.”

     For a second, barely more than half a heartbeat, there's nothing but silence. Then his second-in-command splutters loudly. _“Excuse me, what? Are they—?”_

     “Aiming at me, yes.”

_“You need to get inside now.”_

     “I know that, Ze.”

_“Boss, you need to get inside right fucking now.”_

     Adam sighs heavily and gives in to the urge to roll his eyes. It feels incredibly good. “I'm fine, for fuck's sake.”

_“No, you're fucking not! There's a sniper aiming at you! Get inside!”_

     “Oh my god, Ze. Stop worrying.”

_“I'm allowed to worry when there's a fucking sniper aiming at you and we're not there to protect you!”_ Ze very nearly shrieks, and Adam winces at the volume.

     “I'm fucking fine, now go fuck your boyfriend.”

     Instantly, Ze shuts up and there's a long moment of stunned silence. Adam grins and braces himself for the scream that is certain to come. _“He's not my fucking boyfriend!”_

     “Are you sure Chilled isn't your boyfriend, Ze?” Adam asks, and he's pretty damn sure that his familiar Cheshire cat grin is plastered across his lips. He can feel the sniper's gaze on him for a moment longer before it disappears and he knows they're gone. So, apparently they weren't going to kill him that night after all. How pleasing.

     At the very least, he can enjoy his party in peace now, without having to worry about getting a bullet through his skull. Adam turns around to head back through the double doors, making a mental note to have his crew investigate his possible sniper.

     He does, after all, like to know who he's going to kill. Makes the game that much more fun.

     His guests greet him with enthusiasm as he heads back inside and the Mafia boss smiles. It's a dark smile, cool and empty, full of threats that can't be read, and he laughs. “Yes, yes, I know. I apologize for disappearing, but something came up.” He weaves his way through the crowd over to the refreshment table, stopping by it just long enough to grab a glass of wine. With a faint smile on his lips, Adam takes a sip and tries not to laugh. He knows he really shouldn't be doing it, but teasing Ze is just so much fun to do that he really can't resist. Especially when the other seems determined to avoid the fact that he has an absolutely massive crush on his teammate.

     (Really, even John can see it, and he's fairly well known for being oblivious about this sort of thing. Adam thinks it's absolutely hilarious and refuses to let it go. Not when he has a chance of actually helping one of his minions have an actually happy love life.)

     ((Adam hasn't had a happy love life in years and he tries very hard to ignore it. He doesn't want to remember the way he lost his fiancee; not the way she smiled, the way she laughed, and especially not the way her blood had spilled across the ground.))

_(Something deep in his heart, the darkest part of him, wants revenge._

_Adam still hasn't gotten it yet, but he's trying.)_

**oOo**

     “I have a job for you.”

     Ryan, better known only as the weapon's dealer Ohm, tries very hard to make it look like he's not listening in on his best friend's conversation and carefully continues polishing the gun he has on hand. It's currently in pieces in front of him, a welcome distraction to the jumble of his mind, and he focuses intently on it, all the while listening as Jonathan speaks to someone on the phone.

     He can't hear what the other end is saying, but he does hear Jon's rather annoyed, “You owe me, bitch. Assist me with this and I'll call it even.”

     There are many people in the underworld who owe the assassin a favor, but very few that Jonathan would call a bitch, fewer still that he would say it to their face. Which means the other end is either a part of BBS or—

     “I swear to god, if you make this about me dropping the fucking pie plate, I will stab you. In the face. With one of my poisoned needles.”

     —Max.

     Jonathan turns slightly and Ohm immediately drops his gaze back to the gun splayed out on the counter in front of him. It's mostly shiny now, free of dust and dirt and grime, and he knows he's going to have to start putting it together again or else wind up looking incredibly suspicious.

     “For fuck's sake, Gassy. Don't be a bitch.” There's a moment of silence before the assassin amends with, “Well, even more of a bitch than usual. And for that matter, I fucking apologized about the damn pie. Malcolm tried to trip me, succeeded the second time, and then gleefully got his reward of chicken pot pie. Fucking dog.”

     Ohm remembers that incident. Mostly because of how fucking funny the incident had been. Max actually hadn't been mad about the lost food, but keeps bringing it up merely because it's hilarious. The city's best assassin tripping over a dog and dropping an entire pie. If the bounty hunter has his way, Jonathan is never going to hear the end of it.

     Max though, Max has the advantage. He's known Jon for years by this point; far too integrated within their group to really be killed off. That, and he makes it very easy to bring Jon back when he's stuck in Kill Mode. There's just something so incredibly soothing about his voice—the deep, heavy rumble that thickens with an accent when the man uses what little Spanish he still remembers. Even if Ohm and Max are no longer dating, he still likes curling up against the bounty hunter and listening quietly as he reads out loud from a book. Even Jonathan joins them, settles in front of the fireplace with a blanket wrapped around his frame and an honest-to-god teddy bear clutched within his grasp.

     Sometimes, only sometimes, Ohm forgets just how incredible of an assassin Jonathan actually is. Sometimes he forgets that Delirious and Jonathan are the same person.

     (Just like he forgets that he used to be the serial killer known only as the Masked Gamer.)

     All three of them live at Max's place and it's a rather good deal. Ohm takes care of their weapons, makes sure that they're clean, shiny, and as up to date as possible; Del brings them stories about crazy shit, new weapons ideas, and souvenirs from the places he's been; and Max is the chef, the bounty hunter, and the one who can bring them back to focus.

     (A long, long time ago, Ohm used to run with another group of people. It didn't have a name, they were far too disorganized for that, but they were nothing more than murderers. They killed for fun, and the Masked Gamer was more than fine with that. He enjoyed the hunt, enjoyed the blood on his face and copper taste heavy on his tongue, and more than anything, he basked in the fear. It was intoxicating.

     Now, he's nothing more than a simple weapon's dealer, hiding behind yet another mask. Ohm's not really into the idea of the hunt anymore, far more interested the insides of a gun than the insides of a human. The Masked Gamer has been locked inside of a tiny little box in the back of his head, and Ohm would much rather that part of him stayed there.)

_((At least, not until he's needed._

_Ohm hopes he won't need the Masked Gamer for a long, long time.))_

**oOo**

     Out of everything Jon could have asked him to do, this wasn't what Max was expecting. An assault on a place like this? In broad daylight? Was he out of his goddamned mind?

     Well, considering that the man ran under the code-name "Delirious", Max really can't say that he hadn't been expecting this in the least. Honestly, he should have seen this coming a mile down the motherfucking road, and it's his own damn fault for remaining willfully blind.

     Fuck it all. Fuck it all down to the deepest pits of hell.

     But, if he's being perfectly honest, this sounds like it could be fun. Because where Delirious goes, good times seem to follow. Even if they are absolutely bloody ones. And besides, Max really hasn't had this sort of chance to really let go in a long, long time. It's always been 'kill this dude' or 'kill this chick', all of them in terribly specific ways and none of them entertaining at all. The last three weeks of contracts have pretty much left Max feeling very much like a puppet on the string. It's all incredibly frustrating and goddamn does he want to work out his repressed anger.

     So, it looks like he'll be taking up this request of Jon's after all. It's not like the fact he owes the assassin a favor will affect any choice of his, hell no. He knows the man far too well. Despite being a very seasoned killer, Jon rarely makes his own friends repay favors, and only if they really tick him off.

     Max knows full well that he hasn't actually done anything recently, so he's pretty much fully capable of blowing off the mission without Jon getting mad. Normally, that is. But this? This looks like it's gonna be a hell of a good time and the bounty hunter really isn't down for missing it in the least. Besides, it gives him an excuse to try out some of Ohm's latest toys. That new pistol the rabbit had created looked very much like whipping someone with it would hurt.

     (The spike on one end made sure of that.)

     That, and he wants a new set of spiked brass knuckles. His old ones were getting rather dull and crusty with blood. Ohm is gonna kill him for letting the things get so dirty, but Max really doesn't have the patience, or the skinny fingers, needed to clean between each sharp point. Which pretty much leaves him with weathering the rabbit storm of fury for ruining the weapon, apologizing inapologetically—because he knows it's just going to happen again, getting a new pair, and cooking the man's favorite meal in an attempt to sooth his temper. Just like the other five times he's ruined his brass knuckles. By this point, Max is fairly certain that Ohm yells at him purely out of habit. Because it's not like he's going to be able to keep them clean. He takes too many bounties for that to actually happen. Either that, or it's just wishful thinking. Max really doesn't know.

     Sometimes, just sometimes, he wishes he knew what's going on inside of Jon's head. Then he remembers exactly who the other is and regrets asking.

_(Jonathan is Delirious._

_His head's a goddamn mess and a half.)_

**oOo**

     All right, so the mistake is his own, really. Smarty should know better than to think things would be this easy. Especially when they're dealing with a high profile criminal like her. She's a part of their dungeon now, locked in one of the most secure rooms they can think of until Nanners gets back to deal with her, and Smarty honestly thought it would be smooth sailing until their boss returns.

     Then again, he's usually an idiot about this sort of thing, so they should have seen it coming from the beginning.

     It starts only a few hours after they strip her of weapons and lock her in one of the few windowless cells they have, when Smarty notices something in the shadows of the cameras. It's a flicker, there and gone in an instant, and when he can't find it again, he puts it out of mind. Probably just an animal, he thinks, and then switches to another camera.

     (As it turns out, the shadow he keeps seeing is not just an animal.)

     For a while the Derp Crew just mills about the mansion, occasionally checking in on their prisoner, and Smarty mans the security system while he eats dinner, keeping a careful eye on the grounds around the house. Approximately half past the hour, when the sun has set enough that the shadows are long and slender, he hears a rustle in the bushes outside of the compound and immediately focuses on the camera showing the area.

     Of all things, he's not expecting Gassy fucking Mexican to vault over a wall and shoot one of the lower level grunts, killing the poor soul instantly. "Oh, motherfucking shit!" Smarty immediately yelps, dropping his carton of Chinese food.

     “Smarty?” Chilled asks, and he can see the Italian on one of the lower floors. The man's staring at the camera, looking vaguely concerned, and Smarty breathes in sharply.

     “Gassy Mexican!” he yelps again, because there's nothing that can articulate the trouble that they're in other than the infamous Bounty Hunter's name.

     Chilled goes a shade of white he's never seen before and the man immediately whirls around, slamming his hand against a wall as he turns. A curse escapes him and he bolts down the hallway, a hand pressed against his earpiece. He's probably alerting the rest of the group and going to get some weapons, Smarty supposes, and he turns back to watching Gassy Mexican himself systematically destroy their grunts. “Motherfucker.” This isn't going to be easy, that much he can already tell, and Smarty flicks through the cameras in an attempt to find the rest of the Derp Crew.

     Galm is coming up the east hallway, a Colt 1911 ACP in each hand and a scowl on his face. Smarty winces slightly, because he sees the way Galm brushes the back of a hand idly against the new, somewhat scabbed over scar on his cheek—the one given to him by said bounty hunter—and tries not to bury his face into his hands. Really, Galm has quite the grudge against Gassy and Smarty can only imagine how badly this is going to end. If anything, probably with Galm's death. Gassy is, after all, very well known for taking each and every one of his targets down. The man has an irritatingly perfect record and there's no way they're going to be able to defeat him. Not like this. Not without Nanners on hand for orders and backup.

     Nanners is out meeting with the head of BBS, attempting to get Wildcat to agree to a deal. Smarty can only hope it goes well enough for their leader to return here quickly.

     (He doesn't know how much longer they can hold The Gassy fucking Mexican himself off. If Nanners doesn't return swiftly, they're doomed.)

     Smarty shakes himself out of his own thoughts and glances at the screen, wincing at the sight of Galm face down on the grass. Gassy has a foot planted firmly on his back and one gun aimed at his head, the other casually picking off grunts that get too close, and there's a sort of smug air around the bounty hunter. There's no way in hell that Galm will take this lying down, not anytime soon, and Smarty cringes at the thought of the rants that are sure to come later. He leans forward and examines the screen, gaze caught on the way Gassy glances at something out of the corner of his eye, and narrows his vision slightly.

     Why the bounty hunter is doing that doesn't actually hit him until a shadow falls over him and a sharp needle slides into his shoulder blade, piercing the skin and muscle with ease and coming out the other side. He gasps, breathes in sharp enough that he can feel the sear of air scraping through his lungs, and collapses across the security camera control panel. A gloved hand, hidden behind black leather, pushes him and his chair back—it rolls silently across the ground, and Smarty nearly chokes on his tongue when Delirious himself steps by. The assassin's mask is covering his face completely and the blue lenses over the eye-holes glow in the dim light.

     Whatever was on the needle is strong and Smarty can already taste it's paralyzing agent; he's almost helpless against his chair, body locked up, lying limp against it, and watching as blood dribbles slowly down his shirt. “You motherfucker,” he breathes. “Gassy Mexican was a _distraction_.”

     Delirious glances at him and chuckles. The mask only slightly muffles the sound. “Just be silent. I will be done soon.” He leans over the control panel and begins typing, fingers gliding silently over the keyboard, and Smarty swallows when all of the inner cameras shut off. No video, no audio, nothing.

     “Fuck,” he whispers, just as the assassin pats his head and vanishes through the door. The sinking sensation that he knows why Delirious is here settles heavily in the pit of his stomach and Smarty blacks out hard.

_(Fuck indeed._

_They lost.)_


End file.
